


The Best Match

by lookatthesefreakinghipsters



Series: SPN/Pacific Rim Fusion Fics [1]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013), Supernatural
Genre: Drift Compatibility, Engineer Dean, Hand-To-Hand Combat, Jaeger Pilot Castiel, Jaeger Pilot Dean, Jaeger Pilots, M/M, Marshall Singer, Protective Bobby Singer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 21:49:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3585261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookatthesefreakinghipsters/pseuds/lookatthesefreakinghipsters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Ranger Novak was brought in to pilot Impala, a co-pilot had to be found for him, and Dean's desperate to get back into his Jaeger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Match

**Author's Note:**

> Originally [posted](http://lookatthesefreakinghipsters.tumblr.com/post/60804367797/pacific-rim-spn-fusion-fic-part-ii) to my [tumblr](http://lookatthesefreakinghipsters.tumblr.com)

Standing next to Marshall Singer, Dean watched as Castiel Novak fought his potential co-pilot, marking his observations on his clipboard. As Novak pinned his third challenger, his blunted practice knife, as long as his forearm, pressed against his opponent’s throat, Dean snorted derisively as he wrote on his clipboard.

Dropping his blade, Novak stood up abruptly. His defeated contender slinked off in shame and embarrassment. Ignoring the other man, Novak demanded of Dean, “What was that, Winchester?”

“Oh nothing,” Dean replied, unable to keep a tone of smugness out of his voice. Novak quirked an eyebrow at him in disbelief. “No, it’s just,” Dean continued, “you could have won at least a minute earlier against each of your opponents.”

“You really think so?” Novak challenged. “Think you can do better?”

Tucking his clipboard under his arm, Dean met Novak’s gaze, unwaveringly. “I know I can.”

“Then,” Novak said, bowing slightly and waving an arm towards the practice mat in mock welcome, “let’s see it.”

Dean turned eagerly to Singer for permission, green eyes pleading. With a deep sigh of annoyance, Singer nodded. Dean approached the mat, stripped off his uniform jacket and folded it somewhat neatly. Freed from his jacket, his toned arms and broad shoulders were revealed to be dusted with freckles, with a large scar running down the length of his left forearm. He kicked off his boots and placed them next to the mat, setting his jacket atop of them, before pulling off his socks and adding them to the pile. Tucking his necklace, a horned man, under his tank top, he approached the rack with the blunted practice knives. Selecting one, he tested the balance and grip, before frowning and replacing it on the rack. He picked up a second knife and tossed it between his hands for a few moments before nodding slightly to himself.

Finally, he approached Novak, holding the knife loosely in his right hand. As he advanced, it was like the crowd of onlookers just faded away, leaving only himself and Novak, alone in the world. The two men faced each other, bowed briefly and then fell into their starting stances. Dean raised his left arm as a high guard, his left foot forward, but his weight was well-distributed between both his legs. Novak’s stance was similar, but he kept his left arm low, keeping his stance more open than Dean and his feet positioned closer together, ready to move, ready to find the slightest break in an opponent’s defences.

Never one to wait patiently for a fight, Dean moved quickly into Novak’s space, gripping Novak’s right wrist with his left. Novak didn’t move, not even when Dean pressed against him, hip to hip through thin cotton pants. Nudging his blade against Novak’s ribs, Dean whispered gruffly, “One to zero,” bringing an honest and open smile to Novak’s lips.

With a sudden burst of speed, Novak broke Dean’s hold on his wrist. While Dean was rooted to the ground out of surprise, Novak whirled around, taking Dean from behind. Gripping Dean by the hips, Novak pressed his blade into Dean’s back, just slightly to the left of his spine. “One one,” Novak whispered in a tone that could only reach Dean’s ears.

Throwing himself into a front roll, Dean pulled away from Novak’s grasp. Recovering, he stood and faced his opponent. This time, Novak attacked head-on. He thrust his blade towards Dean’s head. Or rather, where Dean’s head had been, as the other man had dodged out of the way. As Dean dodged, he struck out with a counterattack against Novak’s left leg. Grabbing onto Dean’s wrist, Novak halted the attack, but was completely off-balance. With all his might, he pushed Dean’s arm away, forcing the other man to step back to recover his own balance.

Both were forced to stagger back momentarily. Once recovered, they circled each other, daggers at the ready. Dean attacked first, going directly for Novak’s chest. After Novak parried the lunge, Dean then tried to press the advantage and knock his challenger off-balance, but despite the flurry of thrusts and slashes Dean unleashed, they were each countered.

Finally, after Dean launched a desperate overhead attack, Novak grabbed Dean’s wrists. Realizing he was about to be disarmed, Dean pulled himself close to his opponent’s lean and muscular frame, their chests nearly flush. Shifting slightly to the right, he quickly wrapped his leg around Novak’s and smashed against the back of his knee. Caught off-guard, Novak’s legs buckled and he toppled backwards, pulling Dean down onto him as he fell.

Their weapons skittered away out of their grasps, clattering as they fell off the mat onto the cold concrete floor. Bucking his hips, Novak managed to force Dean off himself and onto the floor, where he scrambled to try to pin Dean. Dean, though, struck back, grabbing Novak by the left shoulder and right leg and threw him hard onto his back. Nearly trapped, Dean pressed his advantage, immobilizing Novak. “Two one, Cas,” he muttered, lips nearly against Novak’s ear, a ghost of a smile on his face.

Marshall Singer’s gruff voice broke through the near-silence of the training room. “That’s enough, boys.” Pulled abruptly from their fight, Dean and Novak became aware of the total silence from their array of spectators, the only sounds in the room their own heavy breathing reverberating from the walls. 

Novak said, suddenly feeling self-conscious, “I think I’ve found my co-pilot.” He stood close to Dean and looked at the younger man, who was staring at Singer.

A heavy and frustrated sigh escaped Marshall Singer, a slight slump appearing in his shoulders. “Well boy, it’s your call. If you want to pilot with Novak, you have my blessing.”

Dean glanced over at Novak and met his gaze, his look inscrutable. Dean was overcome with the certainty that he would be Drift-compatible with the man in front of him. Though it would been different than it had been with Sam, where their sparring sessions had been more like a game, their Drift had been the calm merging of two people who knew each other for a lifetime, who looked out for each other during the entire process. With Novak, it was electric, it was intense, it was unlike anything he had ever felt before. And Dean feared what their Drift might be like, whether either of them would come back the same, or if they would be changed forever. And Novak was his only chance to get back into Impala. Wrenching his eyes away from his partner, he turned back to Singer and, studiously ignoring the gallery of onlookers, despite the feeling of burning on his back from their stares, and finally replied, “Yes.”

Snapping out of his slouch, Singer barked, “Get ready, I want a test run of Impala at 1300 hours.” He turned on his heel and left the room. The audience slowly filtered out of the room until only Dean and Novak remained.

“Thank you,” Dean muttered, his eyes cast downwards, his cheeks slightly red.

“For what?” Novak asked, “You’re the best match I have.”

“For getting me back in Impala,” Dean replied, “I never thought I’d pilot her again. Never thought I’d touch her controls again.”

“Well,” Castiel said, “let’s not keep her waiting then.” Dean looked up and smiled broadly, laugh lines creasing the corners of his eyes, making Novak smile as well. Together, they walked out of the room, their knives still lying on the floor, abandoned and forgotten.


End file.
